Driving with One Headlight
by Moonshayde
Summary: When Dean suffers a relapse of a debilitating supernatural illness he had several years ago, Bobby must bury his feelings of helplessness if he's to help Sam find a way to save Dean without reliving the mistakes of the past. S5. After 5x06.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: While this story is all through Bobby's pov, I realized as I finished it's very much a story about relationships, both the highs and lows, the joy and sorrow, and the questionable stuff we do as humans that rests in between. So it's not just about Bobby and the brothers. There are a lot of relationships, both subtle and not so subtle going on here. Some of the characters do some stuff that might be questionable, but I love all the characters.

Disclaimer: _Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke and co. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author. This is for entertainment purposes only; no financial profit has been gained from this story. This story is not mean to infringe upon the rights of the above-mentioned establishments._

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_Chapter 1

The victims don't remember a damn thing. That is, if they survived, which was almost never. That was the way it went. But everyone else--family, friends, and any other unfortunate sucker who cared for the victim--got to suffer, and it hurt. Hurt like the dickens.

He'd have never thought he'd have to suffer through it twice.

Bobby stared out the cloudy window of his house to the Impala parked outside. Sam had his back turned to him, struggling with something in the backseat, but, hell, Bobby didn't need to see to know what was happening. He lived through it all once before, and it hadn't been pretty.

It was 2003 all over again.

_January 10, 2003 - Council Bluffs, IA_

Bobby pulled up to the side of an old diner in his Ford. The place looked busy, though he suspected most people stopped by for some eats before they hit the road again, and with the night winding down he figured the place would start to thin out. He hopped out of the tow truck and started towards the entrance, when he heard his name. In the small parking lot, he could see John standing by his Sierra. Parked at an angle, headlights on, motor running, the truck hummed with life. John obviously wanted to make this quick.

"Still can't find him?" Bobby asked as he approached John.

John shook his head. "Been days since I've heard from him."

"Dean's just a kid. He's probably off doing God knows what."

"I told him to finish up and meet me at Willow Crossing." John sighed. "He better not be fooling around the casinos if he knows what's good for him."

"It's preferable to bein' dead."

John didn't argue him on that point.

"Any particular reason why you needed the tow when I could have come in my Ram?"

"I found the Impala."

Bobby stiffened. "And?"

"It looks like it's been abandoned for days."

John was never one to beat around the bush. He either told it to you straight, or he didn't tell you nothing at all. And if you were foolish enough to find yourself stuck in the middle of that reasoning, then you damn well better figure it out.

Bobby knew Dean wouldn't just leave the Impala lying around. That car was his everything.

"Where?" Bobby asked.

"Not far from Ameristar. He's lucky it hasn't been towed or ransacked by now."

"I'll get her hooked to the truck." Bobby paused. He knew there was more to this. John wouldn't never call him just for a tow. "You gonna tell me what's really goin' on?"

"I think Dean was attacked by a bori."

.....

Bori were demented suckers. Literally. They prayed on people's insecurities, just as much as they carried their own. Damn things were almost as bad as sirens. The bori tended to have the same MO: show up, mess with your head, and then suck the life outta you. Bobby had tangled with one once personally, back in '88, having bumped into the case while he was hunting down some protection charms, and even then he'd just gotten lucky. Victims died a slow, disoriented death. What was worse were the survivors.

That was what he'd told Sam on the phone.

Bobby backed away from the window and wheeled over to the front door. He slammed down the brake on his wheelchair and grabbed his gun, managing to undo the locks on the door, before using the end of his shotgun to unlock the highest one. When he was finished, he opened the door, unfastened his brake, and rolled away from the entrance. He heard Sam's shuffled steps approaching the house.

"The couch," Bobby called out to him.

Sam broke through the open doorway, his back turned to Bobby, though every few seconds his face would show over his shoulder. He had scratches on his cheeks, his nose, and his forehead, no doubt after a tangle with Dean, and he had that world-weary look that broke Bobby's heart.

As he backed into the room, he dragged Dean's unconscious body with him. Sam wasted no time hauling Dean across the floor over to the couch. Bobby didn't miss the fact his hands and feet were bound tight.

Sam dropped him onto the cushions and exhaled. "Hey, Bobby."

"Hey yourself," he mumbled, even if he didn't mean it. "Next time you call me as soon as something happens. Not a day later."

Bobby didn't give Sam a chance to come back at him with excuses or apologies, and Sam didn't bother to protest. Sam knew him well enough to get when he was teasing and when he was serious.

He wheeled past Sam and parked in front of the couch, studying Dean's limp body. Like his brother, he had scratches on his face, and some on his neck. His hands were marked, scabbed and bloody, but aside from that he looked fine. But unlike the scratches on Sam, Bobby knew these were self-inflicted. They were part of the desperate fights Dean was battling with himself.

A dozen or so things could be the cause of panicked fighting like this, but Bobby knew there was one big clue that would show him if it were a bori or not.

He pushed Dean's head away from him and folded back his ear. Bobby frowned. While there was some redness and a little swelling, the diamond shaped puck mark left by the bori's stinger was flat-out absent.

"Maybe not a bori after all?" Sam asked.

Bobby didn't answer. He pulled back and stared at Dean, rubbing his beard as he thought. Something wasn't right about this whole thing. Just not right at all.

"Bobby?"

"Tell me again what happened?"

"Uh…well, it came out of nowhere. We were traveling down the highway toward Omaha, and he started with a panic attack at the wheel. I steered the car to the side of the road, and he ran." Sam glanced at Dean and sighed. "I'm lucky he tripped in a cornfield. I've never seen Dean run that fast."

"And he ain't talking?"

Sam shook his head. "He hasn't spoken since the panic attack. He's just…" His voice quieted. "He's not Dean."

From what Sam had told him, it sounded like the work of a bori. But infection was near instantaneous and there wasn't no way a bori would've been in the Impala with the two of them unnoticed. The Winchester boys might get careless, but they sure as hell weren't that blind.

"All the symptoms match, but--" Bobby stopped, frowned, and turned to Sam. "Unless you're leaving something out?"

Sam shook his head. "He's been wild, like…like he's a caged animal. It's the best way I can describe it." Sam stopped, and Bobby could tell he was evaluating him. "What's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"

"Thing is, I ain't never heard of 'em striking twice. Even rarer is getting away twice. And it certainly weren't never gonna happen inside your car."

"Dean's had this problem before? When?" Sam shifted his weight impatiently. "Why didn't you tell me on the phone?"

"Didn't think chatting about it over the phone would be much help. Especially he if kept trying to run."

"Point," Sam said. "But I've never seen Dean this way my whole life."

"You were away at college. Back in 2003. Winter."

Sam frowned. "Dean called nonstop that year, you know, before we quit talking. I would have known about it."

"You really think he'd have told ya? With all his macho crap?"

Sam seemed to consider what he'd said and chuckled. "Nothing to affront his manhood." But the break in tension was short-lived as his smile faded. "Bobby, what the hell's going on?"

Bobby stared at Dean's unmoving body. When Dean woke up, all hell would break loose. They didn't have much time, and he was plain out of answers.

"Get me my books," he said.

.....

The hours ticked by. Bobby pored over the stack of old, dusty books that Sam had dumped on the nearby table and instructed him to keep watch over his brother to make sure he didn't wake. The last thing they wanted was Dean going wild all over the place, and thankfully, Dean didn't say boo the entire time. Whatever Sam had done to him had stuck good; he wasn't waking any time soon. But as the daylight hours dwindled, Bobby's concerned shifted from one brother to the other.

"Get some rest," he told Sam. "I got it covered."

Sam glanced at Dean before turning to one of Bobby's reference books. "No, I'm fine," he said.

He looked anything but fine. Bobby knew for a fact the kid had driven to his house straight through the night, not stopping once in fear of Dean getting loose. His eyes were dull, his coloring a shade too pale, and the weariness just oozed off him like summer heat off pavement.

"What good are you if you pass out," Bobby said. He waved Sam away. "Now go. I'm gonna need your strength when he wakes up."

What was left of Sam's cool exterior didn't break, even if Bobby noticed he was clutching the book harder. "How bad is it going to get?" Sam asked.

"Bad."

Sam sighed. It took him a minute, but he finally closed the book and leaned back in his chair. Up came his feet onto a stack of paper, coupled with a determined but hopeful gaze in Bobby's direction.

"Fifteen minutes," Sam said.

"Sure, fifteen."

"Please, Bobby."

He nodded. "Just go to sleep."

Sam didn't say anything more, but the pleading in his eyes told Bobby enough. He rested his hands on his lap and closed his eyes. Then, he was out like a light.

Bobby let him sleep. He knew Sam would be pissed when he woke up, but he also knew from experience that they'd both need every last ounce of strength once Dean woke from his stupor.

He didn't like where this situation was heading. He didn't like it one bit. And the more he thought about that time back in '03, the more troubled he became.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm now aware that changes to have caused some formatting issues on some of my other stories, which means the scenes don't have their proper breaks. This story has been formatted properly to adjust for the change, but I'll be going back to fix the others. Sorry!

Chapter 2

Bobby followed John into the alleys near the Ameristar casinos. He'd already hooked up the Impala to his tow truck, but he didn't feel right just heading off without giving John a hand in helping find his boy. Bobby had grown fond of him and Sam over the years. The thought that Dean's brain might be dog chow for some greedy monster made his stomach turn.

"What makes you think it's a bori?" Bobby asked.

John didn't reply right away. He poked around one of the alleys, searching every corner, crevasse, and crack for Dean. In most of the shadowed sections of the alley, the melted snow from earlier in the day had started to ice over, and many of the little cardboard box huts had a sheen of frost over their tops. Before long, the temps would drop another ten, and everything would be frozen.

Bobby hated the thought Dean could have been exposed and alone in the middle of winter. John paused to check a few of the boxes, but after finding nothing, he let out a frustrated sigh and turned to him.

"Dean called me to tell me he'd found something here in Council Bluffs."

Bobby felt an unpleasant wave of discomfort wash over him as they moved to the next alleyway. "He's hunting on his own?"

"Of course not," John said, making it a point that Bobby saw the annoyance in his eyes. "We were working a simple ghost job in Willow Crossing, and I had him come into town to get some more supplies. Not long after, he called me. Textbook bori." John paused and looked back into the darkness. "I had him do some recon."

"Dammit, John. You know he--"

"He knows how to follow orders." And John said nothing else on the matter.

Bobby shook his head. John Winchester kept his boys on a tight leash, and while Bobby knew John was terrified to lose them, he also knew all the hard-assed military control was bound to backfire. Sam was the perfect example.

Dean might be more in line than his younger brother, but Bobby knew the boy was itching to prove himself. He had been for longer than Bobby could remember. He hoped to God Dean hadn't been stupid enough to pick a bori hunt as his next claim to fame in his daddy's eyes.

His gaze turned outward down the length of the alleyway. It was nearly empty, having only a few stragglers here or there. The cold must have chased many of the homeless away, but if Dean had been infected by a bori, Bobby wasn't sure he'd have enough sense to make it to a shelter.

Part of Bobby wished Dean had gotten careless and had lost track of time playing in the casinos. The smackdown from his daddy would be far, far better than anything he might've been going through with a bori.

"Some of the workers I talked to say they keep seeing a boy that matches Dean's description back here early at night," John said, stopping to give the alleyway another once over. "I've been here four days in a row and haven't found anything."

Bobby drove his hands deeper into his pockets. Four days in this weather was killer. He'd been out just over an hour and already he wanted nothing but to double back to John's truck parked on the street behind them. He couldn't imagine Dean living like this.

Next to him, Bobby felt a sudden shift in the air, a new strain that made the cold feel even colder. He shivered and felt his own muscles tighten, on edge as John tensed.

It was him.

Bobby didn't know if was luck or something more, but sure enough, there was Dean. The sight just broke his heart to pieces.

He was at the end of the alley, leaning over the top of a garbage bin that was about three-fourths his height. When he stretched forward, his feet nearly lifted off the ground, forcing him to balance his weight on his stomach while his hands darted through the mess below. Bobby watched in silence as Dean rummaged through the trash, digging deeper and deeper as he became more desperate. Eventually, he found a half eaten burger, and took a bite, letting the rest hang out of his mouth as he resumed his search.

Bobby glanced at John. He knew that seeing his boy this way must be tearing him apart inside, but if it was, John made no lasting outward sign to show it. He set his jaw and stepped forward.

"Dean."

Dean jerked his head and stiffened.

Bobby wasn't sure if he recognized his name or not, or even if he recognized John's voice, but the command in his tone was enough to grab Dean's attention. He remained still, his bloodshot eyes locked on John's slowly creeping form.

"Son, come on with me."

Dean tensed and cowered back a step. There was a gleam in his eyes that Bobby knew all too well. John knew it, too.

Before either one could shout out orders, Dean bolted.

"Dammit," muttered Bobby. He took off down the opposite side of the alley, not even waiting for John to bark out orders. While John pursued Dean around the corner, Bobby doubled back and rushed down the next lane, the one that ran parallel to where they had first seen Dean.

The alleys were narrow and tight, and with the temperatures falling at a rapid rate, Bobby felt the squeeze like a vice on his chest. He sucked in a chilly breath and gasped, feeling the air freeze his lungs. Still, he kept running, despite the age weighing down his limbs, and the patches of ice that tricked the grips on his boots.

Dean emerged from the shadows, slipping and sliding on the glassy pavement, his breath uneven as he slammed into an empty trashcan. As Dean righted himself, he glanced behind his shoulder and, apparently mustering enough sense to defend himself, tossed the trash can lid at John, who was hot in pursuit.

Bobby pushed harder, trying to make the most of Dean's distraction. With Dean's focus still on John, Bobby thrust his body weight forward and tackled Dean, holding him tight to cushion the blow as they both hit the cold pavement.

Dean's mouth opened to let out a cry, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. He wriggled under Bobby's weight, trying to weave his way out from under him. Bobby found it harder and harder to keep Dean still. The boy was relentless in his struggle, twisting and turning and even baring his teeth, like that would help.

John jogged over to where Bobby had him pinned.

"He ain't gonna come quietly." Bobby clenched his jaw, feeling Dean's knees ram into his stomach.

"My truck's just out front," John said. "Let's get him to it."

"Good luck with that." Bobby knew they were going to need it.

While Bobby worked on keeping him still, John slipped his arms under Dean's and prepared to lift him. Bobby took his cue and let go, quickly grabbing Dean around the knees before he tried to kick him.

Dean did anyway.

Bobby winced at the pain in his shins. Dean was heading for a good smack if he didn't calm down soon, though Bobby couldn't blame him. Ignoring the pain, he tightened his grip on Dean's legs, and after a quick nod to signal John he was ready, the two of them hoisted him off the ground and started down the alley.

They had both hoped Dean wouldn't put up much of a fight, but all that hope was for naught. Dean squirmed like he was full of bugs; he twisted his torso from side to side, kicked his feet, and clawed his hands. Bobby grunted as he struggled to keep his balance, while John shook his head at Dean's repeated efforts to knock him back.

"Cut it out, Dean," John muttered, grunting as Dean slammed his upper body back repeatedly.

John's command fell on deaf ears. Dean continued to fight against them, and he was causing quite a stir while he was at it. As they neared the end of the alley, one of the many displaced folks that hadn't made it to a shelter poked his head out of his cardboard box and frowned.

"Hey!" he shouted, his weather-beaten face marred with disgust and anger. "Hey, you!"

"We gotta get him outta here," Bobby mumbled, nearly slipping on a patch of ice as Dean kicked at him. "The cops'll be here any minute."

John nodded, and after a brief pause, he motioned with his chin toward the side of a building. "Over there. Get him against the wall."

Bobby hesitated. He wasn't sure he was going to like this, but with the homeless man more agitated than ever, he didn't have time to think about it.

He shuffled his feet as he followed John's lead toward the side of the alley. When they reached the wall, John let his grip loosen and after Bobby did the same, he knocked Dean against the brick surface.

"Dean," John started, "you--"

Dean let out a muffled noise that sounded like something between a hiss and growl. He snapped at the air while his arms thrashed out against the two of them. Bobby ducked, nearly hit with one of Dean's wild blows.

John reared and punched him hard in the face. Dean slumped to the ground.

Bobby stood shocked. He knew that they had to quiet Dean before the homeless man squealed on them, but he hadn't expected that kind of swift action from John, at least not on his own son.

"Help me get him to the truck."

Again, Bobby helped John lift Dean off the ground, this time with more obvious ease, as they carried his limp body back to John's truck. He could still feel the homeless man's eyes on them as they disappeared to the street, but they would be long gone before any police showed up to question them. Not that anyone really cared about the homeless around these parts anyway.

They dropped Dean into the passenger's seat. John kept quiet as he withdrew some rope and bound Dean's hands and feet. He gave them a quick tug, and once satisfied, he shut the door and headed for the driver's side.

Bobby grabbed him by the arm. "Bring him to my place," he said. "We'll figure out how to cure him there."

"I've got it covered."

"The hell you do. Where you gonna keep him? In your truck the whole time? I got space. Don't be a fool."

John said nothing. Bobby took it as a yes.

"I'll follow you up. You know the way."

He took one last glance at Dean's unconscious body and started back to where he'd parked his tow truck. It was going to be a long ride back to South Dakota.

.....

It had been a long ride back to his house. Once it was over, Bobby had hoped never to experience something like that again. But here he was, living it all over.

He rubbed his eyes and looked down at the book, frowning when the words blurred together. He must have fallen asleep.

Damn.

Bobby's eyes locked onto the couch. It was empty.

Dean was gone.

Bobby tossed the book aside. As he wheeled away from the table, he searched the room, peeking into open doors as he weaved past the stacks of papers and books on the floor.

Nothing.

He parked by Sam and gave his leg a shake. "Get up."

Sam started, nearly kicking over the paper bundle where his feet rested. The glaze over his eyes quickly burned off as the confusion faded away. Bobby didn't need say a thing. Sam turned his head and stared at the couch. His eyes sparked with anxiety.

"I'll check 'round here," Bobby said.

Sam was already to his feet. "I've got outside."

He rushed out of the house and shut the door. As it clicked behind him, Bobby finally let out a frustrated sigh. He hated that he couldn't be out there, like he normally would, on account of his damn legs. Sam would be faster and cover more ground without him.

Bobby cursed under his breath and pushed the paper bundle aside. He was about to head into one the rooms adjacent to the living room when he heard small clang coming from the kitchen.

Slowly, Bobby wheeled toward the noise, heading past the double sliding doors to the kitchen. When he poked his head inside, he found Dean half-obscured by the refrigerator door. The sight made Bobby's heart sink. He had a still-wrapped stick of butter hanging from his mouth, a package of lunchmeat tucked under his arm, and a couple bottles of condiments and baking soda perched on top. Fragments of rope clung to his bruised wrists.

He must have felt Bobby's eyes on him. Dean stiffened and turned his head; the lack of recognition in his eyes told Bobby everything. This was definitely something to do with a bori.

He wheeled into the room, pausing by the doors. Dean inched back against the inside of the fridge. Bobby knew that if approached any closer, Dean would bolt. Any noise, really, would startle him into a panic.

Knowing he didn't have much time, Bobby let his hand roam to the cupboard to his left. Dean was watching his every move, the anxiety in his eyes rolling into a quiet storm. His weight shifted to his right foot, and Bobby had a feeling he would sprint any second.

Bobby opened the cupboard and took out one of his candy bars he kept stashed and out of sight. He ripped the wrapping at the top of the Milky Way and tossed it on the table nearest Dean.

"It tastes a helluva lot better than baking soda," he told Dean.

Dean cocked his head, but didn't concentrate on his voice for long. Instead, he took a tentative step towards the table, and without abandoning his newfound treasures, he quickly snatched the candy bar off the table.

Bobby kept quiet as Dean spit out the stick of butter and chewed off a section of the Milky Way. His eyes lit up after the first bite and he went for another, dropping everything he was carrying so it made a loud crash on the floor.

Bobby grabbed another candy bar and tossed it on the table. Dean's greedy hands grabbed the Kit Kat, and to Bobby's surprise, he started munching on both at the same time.

He fumbled through the lower cabinet and threw Dean a Snickers. He knew he couldn't keep this up for long. He didn't have that much junk.

While Dean munched on the Snickers, Bobby looked over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He didn't want to call out to him and scare Dean away, and he stupidly left his phone on the table where he'd fallen asleep.

Bobby grabbed another Milky Way. Dean stepped closer--closer than Bobby thought he would ever come--and took the candy bar. As he munched on it, he leaned forward, trying to steal a peek into the cupboard.

"Take a look all you want," Bobby said. He wheeled backwards to give Dean more space. Then, he motioned to the shelf.

Dean eyed him with suspicion, but didn't seem too scared by the wheelchair. He took another tentative step forward, and then another, but he stopped by the cupboard's edge. While keeping an eye on Bobby, he slid his hand inside and started to feel around for more snacks.

He found some. Dean grabbed a bag of chips, some hard candies, and a big pack of Twizzlers. Under normal circumstances, Dean's candy hoarding would be mock worthy, but the sight left nothing but pain for Bobby today.

Bobby pointed to the bag of chips and opened his hand, motioning for Dean to toss them to him. Dean frowned and stepped back, clutching the food harder.

With a sigh, Bobby rolled his eyes. "I'm not trying to steal it, you moron."

Dean held back.

Without another word, Bobby reached into the cupboard and grabbed another bag of chips. He ripped the top off and shook the bag before handing it over to Dean.

Dean hesitated again before finally taking the open bag. He sniffed the inside once and then, with renewed vigor, shoved his hand inside to withdraw as many chips as he could. Bobby remained speechless as Dean devoured the whole bag.

Again, Bobby pointed to the unopened bag in Dean's hands. Dean looked down at it, tracing his finger over the edge before he looked up. Slowly, Dean reached out the bag toward him. Bobby knew this was amazing progress for a bori infected person, and he was surprised Dean had enough sense to be making connections. He was going to make sure he took advantage of it.

Bobby tried to look as friendly as possible as he reached to meet Dean halfway.

A loud crash cut through the air, echoing from behind the house.

Dammit. One of the cars must have lost its bumper.

The noise was enough for him to lose that vital connection. Dean froze, his eyes wild, as he tried to make sense of the noise. Then, before Bobby had a chance to try to reestablish any kind of link with him, Dean let out a mute squeal and darted toward the door.

"No, Dean!"

Nothing he could say would get through to the kid. Dean charged forward, abandoning all his snacks, and rammed into Bobby. His chair tipped over and he crashed to the ground. Pain shot through his shoulder and into his chest, while the lack of feeling in his legs reminded him just how useless he was. When he turned his head, he could see Dean already scrambling to his feet. Bobby swore, feeling helpless as he lay flattened on the floor while Dean took off into the living room.

They were gonna lose him.

Sam tackled him sideways.

Bobby watched as Sam grabbed Dean by the waist and threw him into a stack of books. The two, nearly out of his line of sight, struggled against each other, the pages of old manuscripts, newspapers, and ancient books flying around them.

Both Sam and Dean disappeared from view, but their grunts carried into the kitchen. From what he could tell, it sounded like they were getting into it pretty heavy, and all he could do was lie on the floor.

Sam had size and strength on his side, but Dean had that unbridled bori vengeance. Bobby couldn't let them tear each other apart.

Summoning whatever strength he'd built in his arms, Bobby started to pull himself from under his overturned wheelchair toward his study and living room. Just as he reached the doorway, he saw Sam and Dean wrestling in the corner. He couldn't see much. Sam had him pinned, but Dean wasn't giving up. His hands were ready to claw Sam's eyes first chance he got, but for now, Sam had his wrists restrained tight.

"Dean!" Sam yelled.

Yelling wouldn't do squat. Bobby knew they had to get Dean back under control, and this time chained up good.

"You gotta tie him up," Bobby shouted. He fumbled for anything nearby, but his strength was waning. He couldn't drag himself any more.

Dean didn't give up the fight, but neither did Sam. He maneuvered around Dean's kicking legs and squirming body. These two were used to scuffles. Bobby knew that for sure. But fighting was hard when one of them was working primarily instinct.

And Dean's instinct finally got the better of him. Bobby didn't have time to shout out a warning before Dean's teeth met Sam's forearm. Sam let out a cry as he broke the skin, but to his credit never let Dean go. After what Bobby thought was a flash of uncertainty, Sam reared back and punched Dean in the face.

Dean crumpled into an unconscious heap on the floor.

Sam let out a deep breath and staggered to his feet, holding onto his forearm. He winced and looked back at Bobby.

Bobby knew what he was thinking and waved him away. "Don't worry about me. Go get that cleaned out and then, then we got to get him some place secure."

Sam frowned, staring at him with puzzlement. There was an unspoken question in Sam's eyes, maybe even a flare of accusation from the not-so-old memories that still remained fresh in his mind.

Bobby felt bad enough about the panic room. He wasn't about to tie either one of them in there ever again, if he could help it.

"The room next to the study," he told Sam. "There's space in there. Hurry before he wakes up again."

Sam nodded, despite the hesitation in his eyes. He stepped away from Bobby and headed for the bathroom to rinse out the bite.

Bobby stayed on the floor, where his body had given out on him, to watch Dean. He and Sam were going to need to have a serious talk about what to do, and Bobby knew he couldn't put it off much longer. As much as he tried to avoid it, he was going to have to tell Sam the truth, and when he did, he knew Sam wasn't going to like it one bit.

.....

The table where Bobby was sitting had a perfect view into the room by the study. He barely used that room, not since his wife had been taken by the demons, and over time it had just become another dump for his books, maps, and other occult paraphernalia. Today it served as Dean's own personal prison.

Dean was slumped on the floor, still unconscious, with his right hand raised and secured with an old pair of handcuffs to some exposed tubing Bobby had never bothered to repair. He wouldn't be out for long, likely less time than last, and when he woke they were going to have a whole new set of trust issues.

Bobby sighed. This wasn't going to be easy.

Sam emerged from the kitchen, carrying a beer bottle in one hand. When he came to stand beside Bobby, he did a quick check of the wheelchair and then placed the beer on the table. Without a word, he collapsed into the seat across from him.

"I'm fine. The chair's fine," Bobby muttered, accepting the beer. It had been embarrassing to have Sam lift him into his own little mobile prison, but they had bigger fish to fry at the moment. He took a swig from the bottle and gave a vague motion with his free hand to Sam. "Thanks. How's the arm?" Bobby asked.

"Okay. It's not bad." He touched the bandage before glancing over his shoulder to look at Dean. Bobby wasn't exactly sure what was on the kid's mind, but he did know that neither one of them could afford to mope over him. Sam was smart enough to understand.

"What happened that year?" he asked, his attention still turned toward Dean.

Bobby looked down at the beer bottle. He wished he could just skip this part and find an answer.

"You've told me about what the bori are, but you haven't told me what happened to Dean."

"Your daddy and I found him witless in the back alleys of a casino. We knew it was a bori. Doesn't take a genius to see it." He stopped, feeling the beer catching in his throat. He cleared it. "We brought him back here to work on breakin' the spell."

"Then let's break it."

"I told ya. They don't strike twice."

"So we're not going to try?"

Bobby scowled. "Of course, we'll try. Gimme some credit."

"Sorry, I--"

"Sorry, nothin'."

Sam fell silent. Bobby wasn't quite sure where his mind was going this time. Sam could be impossible to read on the best of days. But he was a smart one, and as the silence grew Bobby had this sinking feeling the boy was about to open a new can of worms.

"I don't understand why we don't just fix him the way you did before."

Bobby swallowed down that killer lump in his throat and went to the bottle. "It's complicated."

"Well, uncomplicate it."

"It ain't that easy!"

And that was when he saw the explosion in Sam's eyes.

"Why? Why not? We've been spending hours looking for answers to something I don't understand and you refuse to tell me. You know what to do. You've done it before. So why are we looking through your books?" He picked up one of Bobby's old dusty hardcovers before slamming it down on the table. "I can't even find anything in Dad's journal or your papers. It's like you're purposefully _hiding_ the right information from me."

Bobby felt his cheeks flare with irritation. "They don't strike twice, _boy_. Anything we do to him, anything, might hurt your brother, so check your anger at the door, sit down, and help me find something."

Sam rose and gave him such an intense glare that Bobby thought he might blow right then and there. The defiance in his eyes was both terrifying and familiar; Bobby didn't think he'd ever see that look ever again.

Then again, Sam was his father's son.

"What're you doing'?"

Sam grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door. He stopped for a minute, an apology almost on his lips, but the words never came. "I'm going to find something to help Dean," he said instead, and without another word, slammed the door.

Bobby let out a heavy and sigh and rubbed his forehead. He couldn't run after Sam to stop him. He couldn't shake Dean out of his stupor. He couldn't do a damn thing.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sam had been gone all but five minutes when the banging began. When Bobby looked up from the book he had open in his lap, he wasn't the least bit surprised. Sure enough, Dean was awake, and he was pissed.

Dean yanked his chained arm repeatedly, trying to break away from the tubing. He was heading for a dislocated shoulder if kept this up. With a sigh, Bobby tossed aside the book and wheeled to the edge of the room that held Dean.

"Will you stop," Bobby muttered. "None of that's gonna help."

Dean froze at the sound of Bobby's voice. For a minute there, Bobby thought maybe he'd gotten through to the boy, but in a matter of a seconds, Dean was back to thrashing around like a wild animal caught in a trap. Bobby knew he couldn't get close, especially not with Dean like this, and especially not in his damn chair.

But even when he'd had legs, Bobby had known that this was bigger than him. He'd been useless back in 2003. He was even more useless now.

.....

Bobby felt helpless as he watched Dean tear up one of his rooms. He and John had done their damnedest to keep anything sharp or pointed out of Dean's grasp, but Dean had gotten creative. He'd done a decent job unscrewing nails out of the floor to toss at both their heads, and in a fit of frustration, had nearly gnawed off his restrained arm.

Dean's blood was smeared across the floor. Bobby winced at the rawness of his flesh where his nails and teeth had left their mark.

"This isn't working," Bobby said. "He's gonna kill himself."

"I know, but we can't just let him run around."

Bobby knew John was right. Dean would be out the door in an instant. But every thing they'd tried, spells, charms, hell even yelling, had done no good. They were plum out of options.

Save one thing Bobby had found.

"There's an old West African myth that says that bori can be placated through song and dance."

John stared at him.

"Yeah, I know. Crazy. But hear me out. There's another one I found straight out of Hausa that talks about the infected, not the possessed, specifically."

"And?"

"And well, it's all about reaching the victim," Bobby said. "Something about the key to reaching the mind is through the heart."

"I'm not into philosophical nonsense."

"I know, but it's a worth a shot for Dean, ain't it?"

John looked to Dean. He was quiet now, having run out of steam several minutes ago, but the dullness in his eyes were a warning. Bori victims never were meant to last this long. Bobby eyed Dean's left arm, which had gone limp by his side.

They were running out of time.

Finally, John nodded. "What are your ideas?"

.....

Sam came back with a large bag in his hands. He stopped short the minute he saw the chaos inside the den.

"What the hell happened?"

"What's it look like?"

Sam blinked and shook his head.

Bobby followed Sam inside the den. Stacks of old newspapers he'd saved were torn to shreds, while a couple of boxes that had been in Dean's reach had been left overturned and destroyed. Bobby didn't miss the nails that Dean had started pulling up from the floorboards.

"You missed the fun," Bobby said wryly.

Sam didn't reply. He was too focused on taking an inventory of the room and Dean.

Oddly, Dean had since stopped. Bobby knew it was way too soon for his body to be winding down. But he was assessing them, watching them the way a cat watches a mouse.

"What happened to his arm?" Sam asked.

"Take a wild guess."

Several long scratches ran the length of Dean's right arm, up to his wrist, which was red and swollen. It didn't look half as bad as what Dean had done to himself the last time he'd went wild, but it was bad enough.

"We can't leave him like this."

"I'm all ears."

Sam crept into the room, keeping his pace even, slow and deliberate, as he moved toward his brother. Dean reared on his haunches and his eyes narrowed. If he could, the boy would be growling by now.

"Sam, better leave him be. He's none too happy to see you."

No surprise, Sam didn't listen to a word he said. He kept inching closer and closer to Dean, who now was taking this incoming threat more seriously. It wasn't just anger in his eyes. Whatever darkness was swirling in there went beyond anger. It was deadly. Cold, quiet death.

A wave of uneasiness rippled across Bobby. He stiffened in his seat. No way was he going to have a front row seat to Dean tearing into Sam.

"Sam…"

Sam held up his hand and waved Bobby away. He was just out of reach of Dean now. A couple more steps and Dean could rip his throat out if he wanted. Not that Sam was a pushover. Just Dean's strength couldn't be underestimated.

Dean never broke eye contact with Sam. Not once. Not when Sam stopped and opened the bag and not when Sam pulled out a flimsy cellophane case.

"I thought you might be hungry," Sam said, placing the box on the floor. He popped the lip to open it.

Dean shifted the weight on his haunches. He finally broke off his murderous glare and lifted his head, giving the air one short sniff.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sam said, bringing his hands up as if surrendering. "Not anymore."

Sam gave the box a swift kick toward Dean before he backed away. As he moved, Bobby caught a glimpse what was in the box. He should have guessed. Sam had grabbed a large bacon burger oozing with grease with a side of French fries that were so oily that they could have been swimming in the stuff.

It was like a greasy treasure waiting to be claimed.

Dean hesitated. Bobby could tell he wanted it. He kept eyeing the slop like it was a newfound prize, but wasn't sure what to do with it, or if he should chance taking it. Dean kept glancing up to Sam, who was crouched just a few feet away, before he finally reached out his hand and snatched the burger.

What a bite. Dean chomped into the burger so hard and so fast Bobby was afraid he would choke. And then something happened.

Bobby never saw Dean's face pucker so fast. He gagged and spit out his large bite onto his ruined hardwood floor.

Sam started laughing.

Great. Dean had gone feral and Sam was a raving loon.

"And this is funny how?"

Sam didn't glance back, but Bobby could tell he was smiling. "Dean has this irrational hate towards pickles. Don't ask."

He didn't ask. He sat there, mildly confused and mildly curious, as Dean opened up the burger and started flinging pickles everywhere. Sam must have ordered extra.

"Don't you see? Dean's still in there."

"You're basing this on a pickle test. I want him to be right, too, but this is a stretch."

"I don't think so." Sam paused and then stood.

That uneasy feeling hit Bobby again. He was going to do something stupid. Bobby just knew it.

Sam, as if remembering his height, crouched low again and, with caution, started to creep towards his brother. Dean was happily munching on his burger and fries, seeming to have abandoned his murderous intent on Sam. But as Sam inched closer, Bobby saw Dean stiffen, his eyes narrowing as he peered at Sam through the corner of his eyes. He tried to act like he didn't care that Sam was coming closer, not unlike how Rumsfeld used to act when someone he was trying to ignore came too close. That would before all hell broke loose.

Bobby dropped his hands over his wheels and prepared to come after Sam if things went wrong. "Sam, don't."

Again, Sam ignored the plea. He stopped just out of Dean's reach, though Bobby swore he'd come closer this time. He opened the bag again and withdrew a half-pie, already pre-sliced. Sam popped the cover and discarded it. He held up the pie for Dean to see.

Dean stared at the pie like it was the Hope Diamond.

"You want this?" Sam placed the pie at his feet. "You need to come get it."

"Sam!" Bobby hissed.

From where Bobby was parked, he could see Sam digging into his pocket. Before Sam took out what was in there, Bobby knew. He knew the moment Sam had gotten close to Dean.

Sam took the key and carefully reached for lock on the handcuffs. Already, Dean was tensing up and his eyes boiling with a mix of fear and desperate anger.

Bobby was going to kill them both.

"It's okay," Sam said, his voice smooth, hovering just above a whisper. He motioned with his chin to the pie. "It's yours. You can have it." He slipped the key into the lock while Dean was distracted. "You don't deserve to be chained like that. No one does," he added quietly.

Bobby's face burned. It took everything in him not to look away in shame.

The lock clicked.

Dean let the handcuffs fall to the floor with a loud clang. He didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He just stayed there, in that one spot, crouching low.

Sam didn't move. Bobby didn't move either.

Dean surveyed his surroundings, his eyes wild. Bobby knew he was sizing up the place, deciding which direction was safest, which way he should go. He was going to run.

Sam forced a smile and held up the pie. "Here."

Once again, Dean's attention was drawn from whatever rambling thoughts flew through his mind to the comfort of food. He stretched out his hand toward the pie, his fingers just out of reach from the container in Sam's hand.

Seeing that Dean was close, Sam scooped up a slice of pie and gently lowered it into Dean's extended hand.

Bobby tensed and prepared for the worst.

It never happened.

Dean took the pie and started to shovel it into his mouth. Blueberry filling dribbled down his chin and onto his already soiled shirt, but he didn't seem to notice. He just kept on eating.

Bobby saw Sam grimace, but to his credit, he didn't push back. Instead, he lowered himself onto the floor, opted to sit cross-legged, and settled in directly across from Dean. Sam grabbed the second piece of pie and took a modest bite. He nudged the now nearly empty container to Dean, showing him he could have the rest.

To Bobby's surprise, Dean mimicked Sam and sat down, his shoulders noticeably relaxing. The two of them ate pie in silence, but without any palpable tension.

As Bobby watched them, partly amused and partly in awe, he couldn't help but wonder if he and John had chosen another way, things would have turned out different.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Ever since the pie incident, Dean followed Sam around the house like a puppy. Or maybe a guard dog. Bobby couldn't be too sure.

On the bright side, it meant they didn't have to worry about chaining Dean up anymore. On the down side, they had to deal with Dean's stink.

"Ugh." Sam turned his head and covered his mouth as Dean flopped down beside him.

Bobby struggled not to gag. Dean smelled worse than a wet diaper in the sun. "We're gonna have to do something 'bout that."

Sam nodded. Bobby swore his eyes were watering.

They had spent the last couple of hours keeping watch on Dean and looking for any additional bits of info on supernatural relapses. Sam sat at the largest table, flipping through a couple of old manuals Bobby had collected from a dealer out in Texas. Dean hovered by Sam's side, leaning over his shoulder to look at the words and pictures. Bobby knew he couldn't understand a word of it, but whatever interested Sam suddenly interested Dean.

Bobby parked himself diagonal from the two of them long enough to catch another good whiff of Dean as he leaned forward.

Sam groaned again and slapped the manual shut. Dean jumped at the noise. After shooting Sam a deadly glare, he disappeared under the table. Bobby frowned and tried to catch a glimpse of what he was doing, but the frustration in Sam's voice distracted him.

"There's nothing in here."

Bobby sighed and shut his book. Sam was right. No matter how hard they searched, they kept coming up empty. They would keep coming up empty. Bobby wasn't sure what he'd been hoping to find. Nothing in these old books would help. Not with this. He'd just hoped…

"So what happens now?"

"I dunno. What are you asking me for?"

"You don't know?"

"Well, hell, Sam. We never got this far last time."

Sam frowned. "What?"

"Bori victims just aren't meant to last long. The bori infects its victim, their mind turns to sludge, and then within seconds the bori's having lunch. Your daddy and I?" He waved toward the spot where Dean had been sitting. "We found him after a week had passed. He was in rough shape. We broke through right at the end before…well, their poisoned minds just can't function for long."

He and John never had to deal with any of this mess. They were either going to get through to Dean or not. Whatever Sam had done had helped, but all he'd managed to do so far was tame Dean, not break through to him.

Bobby didn't need to say any more. Sam got the point.

"What are we looking at for time?"

Bobby shrugged. "A week? Two weeks tops."

Some of that thrumming anger returned just below the surface. Bobby saw it swirling in Sam's eyes, just waiting to burst into a raging storm.

He managed to hold back.

"I don't know why you won't tell me what you and my dad did, but if what you're saying is true, Dean doesn't have much time. I need to know what to do to save him."

Bobby wheeled back and glanced under the table. Dean was busy trying to pick a hardened wad of gum off the floor. If and when Dean was successful--and he had no doubt he would be--Bobby didn't want to think about what Dean would do with the month-old gum.

In a week, it wouldn't really matter. Dean would be dead.

There were no other options. Bobby just hoped that this time things would go down differently.

"I found an old Hausa tale, back the last time this happened, that said something about reaching their mind through their emotions. Heart, I think."

Sam leaned forward, pressing his fingers to his lips as he thought. His eyes lit up with understanding. "Memories?"

"That was our best guess. Seemed to work last time. Eventually," he added under his breath.

"So, we just try to make Dean remember?"

Bobby nodded. "More or less. Your daddy used different memories to try to break him."

Sam fell deep into thought. Most of the anger was gone from his face, replaced with the beginnings of newfound hope. Bobby had seen that look on the boy before. He just hoped Sam wouldn't be too disappointed when his way of trying to reach Dean didn't work.

"Then, we just have to find memories that will snap Dean out of this?"

"That's the gist of it."

Sam nodded. "What did my dad do to get Dean to remember?"

.....

Bobby watched John dump a whole slew of weapons onto the table. "What's all this?"

Though John didn't look up, Bobby saw him sneak a wary glance in his direction. "What's it look like?"

"Looks like a machete, a .45, double-barreled shotgun…" Bobby stopped and gave up. The amount of heat John was packing was enough for a small army, not for a scared and confused boy chained in the adjoining room.

"What's this got to do with memories?" Bobby asked, though part of him feared he already knew the answer.

"Memories are both good and bad." John screwed a spout onto the small propane tank at the edge of the table.

Bobby felt his hands go cold. John wouldn't even think of it. No way he could be so stupid as to make his own son remember the pain and terror of some of those hunts gone wrong or whatever other trouble Dean had bumped into over the years.

"John, this ain't the answer."

"Dean understands this. You have to be direct with him."

"Direct, yeah. Not sadistic."

John spun so fast that Bobby stumbled back. A storm raged in his eyes. "I don't hurt my boys."

"I didn't say you did."

"Never laid a hand on them. Not once."

"So, tap into _that_," Bobby said. "Not all this."

"He doesn't have any good memories. Not any I can give him."

"You're his father," Bobby said. "Ever think maybe just being alive is a good enough memory?"

John didn't say anything. With the shotgun tucked under one arm and the propane tank in the other hand, he walked into the room where Dean was chained. The boy's eyes widened at the sight of the weapons, making it obvious that despite the poison withering his brain, Dean could understand danger. He backed away, close to the tubing, the fear in his face breaking Bobby's heart.

John shut the door.

.....

Bobby didn't tell Sam about the more aggressive stance John had taken with Dean. He knew that John didn't mean no harm. He just practiced tough love. Made an art of it, really. And in the end, John was just as screwed up as the rest of them.

Didn't mean Bobby had to like it. Or like _him_.

Still, Bobby couldn't help but tense up when Sam reentered the house carrying an overfilled duffle bag. He wheeled away from Dean, who had taken to stacking some of his magazines on the floor, and met Sam at one of his large tables.

"What's all that?"

Sam unzipped the bag. Bobby held his breath as he reached inside.

He set aside a small stereo. Bobby breathed a sigh of relief. "Music?"

Sam nodded and held up a few tapes. "Zepplin, Dean's favorite group. Metallica, his relaxation music. And…" Sam held another tape. "Scorpions for a trip to the past."

Wearing a satisfied grin, Sam grabbed the stereo and the tapes and headed for the center of the room. Dean, who was now sitting on the floor eating a pizza as he stacked the mags, cocked his head with curiosity and after a few minutes of careful watching, slid over to where Sam was working on setting up the stereo, a slice still hanging out of his mouth.

Bobby kept his distance, not wanting to disturb the fragile trust between the two. Dean had become fairly comfortable with Sam, and though he also seemed okay with Bobby, he didn't want to chance another fit.

As Sam opened the cassette deck door, Dean hovered over him, studying his actions. He munched on the last of his pizza as Sam took the cassette out of its case and went to slide it into the deck.

Dean shut the door and started pressing various buttons.

Sam slapped his hand away. "Don't touch."

Dean scowled and slapped back.

"Just sit and listen." With that, Sam hit play.

The music sounded familiar, but Bobby couldn't pin it. All of Dean's music sounded the same to him anyway. Just like John's music had just been buzz noise to his ears back in the day.

None of that was important. How Dean reacted was the key.

When Bobby shifted his chair for a better view, he could see that Dean was listening. He cocked his head at the sounds of the guitars and drums, and as the singer wailed about something. He even stopped to touch the speaker, and there. Almost. Bobby almost saw Dean.

Sam sat straighter.

"You remember that time when you were…fourteen, I think? You and Dad had finished off that ghost in Tennessee and even though he told you not to, you went around bragging about it for days. You even had your own theme song--this song--and made a complete fool of yourself. I didn't let you live it down, but really…I guess I thought it was kind of cool and I wanted to be cool, too, even if you looked like a moron." Sam stopped and sighed, watching with disappointment as Dean broke from the stereo and tried to eat the cassette case. "Never mind," he said under his breath.

Bobby broke his gaze and shook his head. He knew it wasn't going to work. He wished to God it had, but bori were nasty. It never was this simple.

Sam wouldn't give up. He tried another song, another memory, another album, another fleeting recollection, another band. He repeated the cycle for hours.

Every so often Bobby was sure he saw a spark in Dean's eyes, as if a memory was trying to poke through. Each time the confusion would win and cloud them over until there was no shred of Dean there, not even the echo of his loud personality.

After three hours of nothing, Bobby hadn't been able to take it anymore. He wheeled out as Sam explained something about Led Zepplin, and parked in the kitchen. Reaching over, he opened the cupboard and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. Not even bothering for a glass, he just tossed off the cap and started to chug.

He felt the burn and closed his eyes. He wouldn't drink enough to get drunk, not in case Sam needed him. Besides, they'd need all the drinks they could get when this was all over, one way or another.

What was he thinking? Like Sam needed him.

He rolled his head back and took another drink.

.....

Sam had tried all day and all night to get Dean to remember. He had played a variety of different songs, which still all sounded the same to Bobby, and even had attempted playing cards, pulling out some weird Americana memorabilia that Dean kept hidden in the trunk, and a last minute brief ride in the Impala around the lot. All that had accomplished was to stink up the car and give Dean motion sickness.

By now, Dean was passed out in a pile of sheets on the floor. Sam sat near his feet, silent and still, the occasional glare shot toward Bobby for good measure.

Sam could stay pissed at him. None of it would do any good anyway.

"Don't beat yourself up, Sam," Bobby muttered as he rested the half-empty bottle by his side. "Bori are deadly for a reason."

"There has to be something. Dad did it. But I've tried all of Dean's favorite things."

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe it got nothing to do with favorite things."

Sam shot him a curious look, though Bobby didn't miss the suspicion in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Just saying that just because you like something, doesn't mean it makes a strong memory."

If Sam understood what he was implying, he didn't admit to it. He glanced over to Dean again, studying him hard, before he turned back to Bobby.

"I don't know what his strong memories are. At least not anymore."

"This ain't an exact science," Bobby said. "It's always different. It always is when you're dealing with people's memories. Who knows what memories are important to your brother. He's always saying one thing to act all macho when he means something else."

That was the tricky part. Sam might be more reclusive than Dean, and impossible to read, but he sure as hell was easier to pin when it came to what mattered. Sam never wanted much, but when he did, he told you and he told you straight out if he liked it. Or maybe he was just a damn good liar.

Dean would go and say he wanted this, that, and some other thing, but at the end of the day he'd got all mushy about the way a card was written. It was like living with a girl.

"It's not just that. I'm not exactly in Dean's good graces right now," Sam said quietly. "At least not the way I used to be."

Winchesters. Bobby would throttle them all if he could. He'd never seen two brothers act like such big pansies.

"I know you and Dean are not in the best place these days," Bobby said. "But it's getting better, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Then focus on the good, quit your belly-aching, and do something."

"Sounds like good advice." He gave Bobby a pointed look.

"Yeah." Bobby took another drink.

Sam pushed himself off the floor and took out his phone. Bobby frowned, unsure where this was going.

"What're you doing?"

"Doing something." He held up a finger and turned his back to Bobby as he spoke into the spoke. "Hey, Cas. It's Sam. We're at Bobby's. It's about Dean." Sam shut off his phone.

Angels. Just what they needed.

"Calling your angel friend?"

"No friend of mine," Sam said.

"Thank you."

Both turned to find Castiel standing in the center of the room. As usual, he was dressed in that dusty old trench coat of his, and the expression on his face was somewhere between indifference and agitation. He didn't seem to react much to Sam's comment either way.

Didn't stop Sam from looking guilty. "Thanks for coming," he managed to say.

"What's the problem?"

"Dean's been infected by a bori."

Castiel looked to Bobby for confirmation. He just shrugged and nodded. "That's what it looks like."

"I'll need to see him." Castiel frowned. "Where is he?"

The three of them turned to the now empty pile of blankets on the floor. Dammit. Dean was more slippery than a wet eel.

Bobby started to search the room, trying not to think about the possibility that Dean had snuck out of the house while they'd been preoccupied. If he managed to hit the woods, run into town, or stowaway on any of the trailers that parked round these parts, they'd never be able to track him down.

Luckily, Bobby didn't have to worry for long. He caught sight of Dean prowling behind the couch, a large knife in hand, as his murderous gaze followed Castiel. Before Bobby had a chance to warn Castiel or Sam, Dean leapt from behind the furniture, the knife aimed at Castiel's chest.

Castiel's fingers touched his forehead. Dean hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Sam blinked. "What was that about?"

"A natural bori reaction to my form. That will be difficult to overcome." Castiel paused. "He smells unpleasant."

They all looked down to Dean's body, which was sprawled across the floor. His stink was worse than ever.

"So it's definitely a bori?" Sam asked.

"His reactions lead me to believe so," Castiel said. "I'll need more time to look into his mind. Something…seems wrong."

Bobby eyed Sam, who was trying his damnedest not to look too nervous. Bobby couldn't blame him. Right from the start this whole thing stunk, and he wasn't talking Dean's body odor. Bori don't strike twice. They just don't. And now they got confirmation from an angel no less.

But first they had to do something about Dean's smell before they all passed out.

Always two steps ahead, Sam grabbed a nearby bucket and sponge and shoved it into Castiel's arms.

"What's this for?"

"Give you some bonding time," Bobby said alongside Sam's firm nod of agreement. "Bathroom's around the corner."

Castiel's face was full of puzzlement, as if he was expecting to be handed a much more vital job. To his credit, he didn't say anything this time, and took the bucket without complaint as he turned to Dean. By the time Bobby had pivoted his chair to face them, they had both disappeared.

Bobby wasn't ever gonna get used to that. With a sigh, he turned back to Sam, not at all surprised at what he found.

Sam was back to that just-on-the-edge look, like he was about to burst and wasn't doing a good job of holding it inside.

"We need to talk," Sam said.

They sure as hell did.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Bobby wheeled into the kitchen after Sam. Sam didn't say nothing at first, opting to lean against the counter by the sink, which gave Bobby the impression he was choosing his words carefully. He kept quiet and waited for Sam to speak.

"I need you, Bobby."

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"No, I mean it. Last year…" Sam looked away and shook his head. He held the knife Dean had somehow confiscated and dropped it in the sink. When he faced Bobby again, there was new determination deep inside. "Last year, I made some mistakes. I thought I could do it all on my own. But I was wrong. I need your help if we're going to save Dean."

Sam kept looking to him for answers, but the truth was he didn't have none. Not this time. Bobby didn't have a clue why Dean was suffering from a bori sting again, and he couldn't figure out why the markings were different. He didn't know how to get through to Dean without destroying what little they had left as a family.

"Whatever you're trying to protect me from, it's okay. I can handle it. Just-just let's stop this game and get to the point. Dean doesn't have much time."

Bobby sighed. The kid was right. At least on the timing issue. But Bobby couldn't. He just couldn't let those flood gates open.

"Please."

Bobby licked his lips and glanced to the counter, unable to look Sam in the eyes. "He tapped into some stuff from your childhood."

"Like?"

"I wasn't in the room." At least that part was true.

"So he found some strong memories from when we were kids?"

Bobby shrugged. "I guess. I didn't exactly press him for specifics, Sam. You know how John could get."

Sam didn't push Bobby for any more on that account, but the wheels in his head wouldn't stop turning. "Strong memories can be both good and bad."

Bobby felt his voice get caught in this throat. "Yeah."

By now, Sam had grown quiet. He remained leaning against the counter, but his mind was a million miles away. Bobby knew that look well. He'd seen it once or twice on John, in moments where he thought no one was looking, when he thought it was just him against the world. Sam didn't seem to care that he was exposing himself that way, at least not anymore, or maybe he never had. Still, Bobby knew what he was considering and it broke his heart. He kept hoping that Sam wouldn't go the same route as John, but at this point maybe they just were plum out of choices.

Finally, Sam pushed off the counter, his face grim and as determined as ever. "I'm going to end this," he said before he walked out of the kitchen.

Bobby hung his head in shame and closed his eyes.

.....

No matter what he did, he couldn't block out the banging from his mind. Bobby nearly went into the closed room twice, once when he heard John hollering like a bat out of Hell and the other time when he heard a loud crash, one that sounded like his whole bookcase got overturned.

Now he just stood in front of the door, trying to remind himself that he wasn't Winchester flesh and blood. He had no right intervening.

For every crash, for every bang, for every shattering bottle, and snapping chair, or thump-thump of…Bobby didn't want to think about it. Just get through until the end. That was what he kept telling himself. It wasn't his place to tell John how to raise his sons.

But he sure as hell felt he had the right. He'd watched the Winchester brothers grow from boys into young men, and sure they might need a few good life lessons to rip them into shape, but they were well on their way to being real hunters. He'd even wager Sam could still mix it with the best of them, despite giving up on the life and going to school.

In the end, it didn't matter. Hunters or not, they still were like family to him. Hell, they were the only family he'd got. What John was doing just wasn't right.

Bobby could tell John was tearing through the room. He heard the roar behind those closed doors. He heard words like "your fault" and "one job." He heard the sounds of guns and pistols and shotguns loading and reloading.

Mostly he heard the deafening silence between the blows, the sinking feeling of fear that he knew was sweating off Dean in beads.

He heard the crackle of fire.

Bobby bolted in alarm. He pounded on the door, and jimmied the handle, cursing when he found it was locked. John didn't like no one messing with him when he was on a job. Even his so-called friends.

That's when Bobby started to smell smoke.

"John!" Each knock became harder and harder as he saw the smoke billowing from the slot under the door. "John, you son of a bitch, let me in!"

And that's when the screams began.

.....

Bobby never forgot that day. Not even now, some six, seven years later. He sure as hell didn't want to see it repeat with Sam and Dean.

Dean sat on the floor, in a fresh change of clothes, his hair still damp. Bobby noted that he was wearing John's old leather jacket, slipped on by Sam, and had a bunch of odds and ends in front of him, things like Sam's laptop, a few pictures the boys managed to save of John, Mary, and the two of them, as well as some weird paraphernalia, like a dancing monkey, that Dean had accumulated at their various stops over the years.

Sam sat opposite him, his hands animated as he explained each and every little thing, or when he went on and on about their first real hunt together in North Dakota, or that time they accidentally slipped over the Canadian border and posed as Mounties, or even when they chased down possessed mascots at Disney World. Dean had loved those moments.

Today, Dean wasn't the least bit interested. He kept trying to peek around Sam to see the TV, which had become his newest object of fascination. Sam had tried showing him a movie not even ten minutes ago, and all Dean could seem to process were that things were moving on the screen. He had investigated the TV, back and front, tried to grab the pictures, finally settling on watching when he failed. Sam had snapped it off in frustration.

Hope was waning. Bobby saw the despair in Sam's eyes, in the way he spoke, in the curtness of his motions. Nothing they did seemed to get through to Dean, not even the memories Sam thought he would cherish the most.

They were getting closer to crossing that line that Bobby feared from the start.

"You're troubled," Castiel said from beside him.

"What'd you expect? Me to do a dance of joy?"

"I don't expect you to dance at all."

Bobby groaned and rubbed the back of his head. He didn't need any reminders, especially from a depowering angel.

"I've neutralized the poison so it can't be reactivated, but I don't have the power to undo what's been done." When Bobby wrinkled his nose, catching the faint whiff of pineapple, Castiel added, "I gave Dean a freshener that you use in your vehicles."

Oh, that was gonna go over big. If Dean ever snapped out of his stupor.

"I feel like I'm supposed to ask you what is wrong."

Bobby glared at the angel.

"You don't want to tell Sam what happened, even if it would save Dean."

When Castiel put it that way, it sounded like Bobby didn't want to help Dean. He wanted to help him more than anything, but what could he do? He couldn't do a damn thing now, stuck in this chair, and he couldn't stop John back then, even though he had full use of his legs and was without the whole apocalypse hanging over his head. Bobby had been one of the few people John couldn't intimidate, even on a bad day, and he'd still been powerless.

And Sam was just like John.

"I don't want Sam to know about it," Bobby said in a low voice. "They got so little from their daddy. He loved him. I know he did. Just…I don't want them to lose what they got left of him."

Castiel gave a slight nod, but Bobby couldn't tell if it was of understanding or if he was judging him. "What were Sam and Dean hunting in Omaha?" he asked abruptly.

Bobby shrugged, surprised by the change in topic. "They were tracking a pack of Atcen that had migrated down from Canada."

"Atcen don't migrate that far south." He gave Bobby a significant look. "Unless they were forced down for a reason."

"Feel like sharing?" Bobby had little patience for word games right about now.

"There are traces of mugwort on Dean's skin."

Bobby's stomach flipped. "Pagan gods?"

"I'm not sure which one, but I recognize their markings. It isn't a coincidence they concentrated on Dean."

Bobby had the sinking feeling he knew where Castiel was taking this line of thought. "What're you saying? That some pagan god used Dean as a dirty bomb on the whole vessel gimmick?"

"I'm not sure what a dirty bomb is, but if you're talking about sabotage, then yes."

Dammit. Bobby rubbed his beard and stared at the Winchesters. Sam had moved onto describing some surfing incident in detail, or more like the women at the surfing incident in detail, none the wiser about what Bobby had just learned.

If pagan gods were involved, they were screwed. It didn't matter if Castiel had counteracted the poison in Dean with whatever was left of his angel mojo. Now they had to deal with some crazy demigod hell-bent on interfering.

Not that the demon and angel thing was bad enough.

Bobby heard Sam let out a heavy sigh. He flipped the TV on and left Dean to try to grab the people on the screen and joined Castiel and Bobby. He exhaled and rolled his shoulders back, doing a piss-poor job at hiding his frustration.

"Bad news," Bobby muttered.

"More?"

"Looks like some pagan god jumpstarted that dormant poison in Dean."

Sam's face paled.

"I'm unsure which one it might be, but it doesn't matter," Castiel said.

"Doesn't matter?" Sam shifted his weight and eyed them both. "Maybe the Trickster? Or something else? Look, we find it and force it to fix Dean."

"It will be long gone."

Bobby nodded. They had no leads. Chasing an invisible god across country and then some would just be a waste of the time they had left.

Obviously, Sam didn't feel the same. His eyes darkened, his face tight with anger. "That's it? We're just sitting back and letting what happens happen?"

"I'm not sitting back," Castiel said. "I just don't trust your judgment."

Sam didn't respond, but the corners of his mouth started to twitch. Bobby wasn't sure if he was going to blow or not, with all the stress he was under, or the anger he barely could control. Now wasn't the right time.

Castiel and Sam continued to glare at each other. Bobby knew he had to cut through this tension now or else things were gonna get ugly.

"Well, arguing ain't gonna change a thing," Bobby mumbled. "We'll think of something else."

Sam's gaze flitted to the extra storeroom on the top floor where Bobby stashed some quick-need weapons. The torment in his eyes was more than Bobby could bear; the weapons could unlock those dark memories within Dean. They could be strong enough to reach him, but what affect would they have on an already broken man? Or for Sam so eager to seek some kind of redemption?

He broke from the storeroom to glance at Dean, his face now haunted by a frown. Bobby followed his gaze.

Dean was partly kneeling, partly sitting on his ankles as he watched the commercials on the TV. It was his left arm that caught Sam's attention, and Bobby's as well. He had it resting on his thigh, while he used his right hand to try and grab the cars on the screen.

Bobby swallowed hard. Not resting. It plain weren't moving.

"What's wrong with his arm?" Sam asked, though Bobby suspected he already knew the answer.

It was too soon. Dean wasn't supposed to reach that point yet. The victims who survived this long still had days before their body's breakdown caught up with the damage to their minds.

"It's possible the poison is more virulent in its reactivated form," Castiel said.

"Or maybe you triggered something," Sam muttered.

"Don't matter," Bobby said quickly. "We don't have time to be snippy." He started to wish maybe he'd just told Sam straight out, consequences be damned. Now they were out of time. Dean could be dead in a matter of hours if the poison were that aggressive.

Bobby shook his head. "Sam, I'm sorry I didn't want--"

"Never mind," Sam said. "If I can't get through to Dean using his old memories, we'll make new ones."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Castiel asked.

"It's going to work," Sam said. He took inventory of the room, as if he were searching for something in particular. He locked onto Dean and hurried to his side. "You like the cars?" he asked, pointing to the TV.

Dean blinked at him.

"We'll go see the cars." With a grunt, he lifted Dean off the floor and slung his good arm over his shoulder.

Bobby watched in silence as Sam guided his off-balance brother toward the door. He frowned. Where did Sam think he was going?

"I need the amulet back," Sam said, pausing beside Castiel.

Castiel frowned. "I need the amulet."

"I know. I'll give it back." He motioned with his hand. "I promise. I need it now."

Without further question, Castiel reached into his pocket and withdrew the hideous looking thing Bobby had given Sam years ago. Originally, it had been meant as a way for Sam to feel connected to John. Bobby had always known the two had some problems seeing eye to eye. He'd never expected it back then, or even now, that the boys would get so sentimental over the thing.

Sam grabbed the amulet and threw it over Dean's head. Dean glanced down at it, mildly interested in the new shiny thing that was dangling on his chest. Bobby thought he was going to try to eat it, but he didn't. He just let it hang there as his eyes clouded over.

"Follow me," Sam called over his shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Bobby drove his van down one of the back roads as he followed the Impala towards a large sports ground. Every year the Sioux Falls area had held the Jammin' and Rammin' Car Show over on Benny's Field. It just so happened it was that time of year.

"I don't understand," Castiel said, appearing beside Bobby and nearly giving him a heart attack. "How does a show about cars help Dean?"

"Beats me." When Bobby realized Castiel was still waiting for an answer, he muttered under his breath and rolled his eyes. "Sam's trying to break through to Dean by making new happy memories."

"Interesting."

"For the record, I don't think it'll work, but at this point, gotta try something. Better than bringing up the bad ones."

"That's what you didn't want to tell Sam."

Bobby didn't feel like answering. Nothing more needed to be said. Sam's game plan was their last ditch effort. If it didn't work, well Dean wouldn't last long enough for them to fail again anyway.

"I think we're here," Castiel said.

Sure enough.

Bobby pulled into the parking lot. There weren't many spaces left, but luckily he found a batch of empty ones on the far side of the lot. He pulled in next to Sam, not all that surprised that he'd already hopped out of the car and was working on pulling Dean out of the passenger side.

Dean was beyond sluggish.

Sam wasn't going to wait, but Bobby had gotten used to getting in and out of the van on his own.

"I'll meet you inside," Bobby called from his open window.

Sam gave him a curt nod and practically dragged Dean toward the field.

Bobby spent the next few minutes hauling his dead wood for legs out of the driver's seat and using the van's controls to get himself comfy in the wheelchair death trap. When he was just about finished, he jerked, shocked to find Castiel leaning over to help him leave the van.

"Thanks," he muttered. He needed to change the subject fast. "You goin' in?"

"I don't have any desire to watch people marvel at their own inept attempts at creation. I'll remain here."

"Suit yourself."

Bobby wheeled as fast as he could to the ticket booth set up at the edge of the field. After he bought a ticket and did a quick survey of the grounds, he noticed Sam and Dean just a few feet away. They had stopped beside a cherry-red Camaro; Sam was explaining what little he could, while juggling a corn dog and some cotton candy. All the while he had Dean secured with his free arm.

When Bobby settled by their side, Sam let out a sigh of relief and handed Bobby the food.

"I stopped by and grabbed Dean something to eat in case he panicked," Sam explained.

"Food cures all." Corn dog didn't smell half bad, Bobby thought, though if Dean ever came out of this, he was going to be one sick puppy when the increased appetite wore off.

The corn dogs might have looked good, but Dean sure didn't. His face had a pasty grayish color, his eyes glassy and empty, and he had this dullness that weighed him down. Forget hours. Bobby was worried he wouldn't last thirty minutes.

"How's he doing?" Bobby knew he didn't have to ask.

Sam forced the worst smile Bobby had ever seen. "Okay. We already looked at a Dodge Charger and some Chevelles. Dean seemed to like them."

"Not as good as mine?"

Sam chuckled. "Never."

At least Bobby had gotten a laugh out of him.

They spent the next ten minutes cycling through the various muscle cars on display at a clip pace. He had a sinking feeling all the stimuli was just bringing Dean down faster, but Sam's determination couldn't be broken. Ignoring a hankering to go check out some of the trucks and trailers, he followed Sam and Dean in case something happened, or God forbid, Dean breathed his last. If something sparked in Dean, he didn't want to miss it. Likewise, if Dean managed some kind of fit, he wanted to be around to help stop him, if possible.

Dean didn't look as if he would run or snap out of his haze. His steps were slower, and his reactions so sluggish that Bobby wasn't even sure he knew where he was. Even now, he was just standing there, staring at his reflection in the window of a souped-up GTX. While he did stop for a second to rub his fingers over the amulet's surface, Bobby didn't see any glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

Whatever Sam had hoped to accomplish here just wasn't going to work.

"Sam…"

"No," Sam said, ignoring Bobby. "No. It's not going to happen."

He grabbed Dean by the hand, dragged him away from the GTX, and brought him to another car, and another, and another. With each stop, Dean looked worse for wear. Bobby quickly followed.

They finally stopped in front of a sleek, black '65 Mustang.

Sam frowned. "I've seen this before."

Bobby slowed to a stop. "This car?"

"Not this car in particular, but this model. I remember my dad having a picture." He pressed his lips together. "I think Dean tried to burn it."

Bobby chuckled despite himself. Yeah, he could see Dean doing that.

He glanced back to the car. The owner had done a bang-up job keeping her prime. Bobby wondered if the owner had stuck to the classics and rebuilt her to mimic the originals back in the day, or if she was just a reconstructed nightmare on the inside. He peered under the open hood for a look.

"It was black, too," Sam said. "Do you remember that, Dean?"

Dean just stared at the car.

"I think I recall John talking about it once."

"Yeah?"

Bobby nodded. "He had a sweet spot for the '65 Mustangs. He mentioned once that he was thinking of selling the Impala, all the memories of your mom tangled up in it, but he didn't."

Sam winced, but not because of what Bobby told him. Dean had tightened his grip, his face looking slightly panicked and angry. While Bobby was thankful Dean still had enough brain cells to actually have reactions, he was uneasy that he seemed to be regressing. They couldn't risk Dean having a full-out panic attack in the middle of Benny's Field. If he tried to run, he'd be out of steam in seconds, and most likely they'd be taking him back home in a body bag.

In an attempt to try to calm him, Sam leaned over and whispered something unintelligible into Dean's ear. Whatever Sam said seemed to cool him off, but only slightly. Despite the fatigue, Dean was looking twitchy.

"It would have been weird if we didn't have the Impala," Sam said, resorting back to conversation to try to ease Dean. Bobby saw the memories swelling in his eyes. "Dean taught me how to drive in it." Sam stopped, as if waiting for Bobby to say something, or maybe Dean.

Neither did.

"He wasn't too happy about it, but he told me if I were going to learn how to drive, I needed to learn how to do it right. I don't know where Dad was. Some job. We were in Wyoming and it was summertime." Sam let out a soft chuckle. "He whined like a backseat driver the whole time, but still managed to teach me how to handle the Impala."

Bobby bit his tongue and let Sam talk. He knew that Sam needed to let these feelings out. He rarely let himself do so. And if this were the end, Sam needed to let go.

"I was sixteen and just hit a growth spurt. He couldn't tease me about not reaching the pedals, but he found a way to do it anyway. I passed the test, even if the instructor said I drove a little too fast. Dean never let me drive it after, not until later." His face grew serious and he turned to Bobby, his eyes appearing to mist over. "Trading in the car would have been like trading in Dean, trading us." There was a long pause. "Did he ever say why he didn't?"

"Mom would've never wanted him to get rid of the car."

Bobby jerked and Sam whipped his head at the sound of Dean's broken voice. His eyes were still cloudy, and half his face slack, but he looked as if he were waking from a deep sleep. Dean was watching them--he looked completely out of it--but watching them nonetheless.

"Besides," Dean said. "Show Mustangs are for lily-white assed pansies." He clicked his mouth and whistled, before forcing a weak smile. "My baby? She's an everyman's car."

Sam's face lit up brighter than Bobby'd seen it in a long time. Hell, Bobby knew he must look like a goofball himself, smiling something fierce.

Dean frowned and tried to step back, obviously a little more than disturbed at the way they were looking at him. He only stopped when he realized he couldn't move any more.

"Dude…" Dean looked at his hand secured firmly in Sam's.

Sam cleared his throat and let go.

"Good to have ya back," Bobby said.

The frown didn't ease. "Back? Did I go somewhere?" He looked around, the confusion growing. "Car show?"

"You don't remember?" Sam asked.

Dean wouldn't. None of the victims ever would.

He shook his head. "And why the hell do I smell like fruit salad?" He reached into his pocket and withdrew a car freshener, the ends frayed with teeth marks.

People were starting to stare, and if Bobby remembered how this worked, then they needed to get Dean someplace where he could rest and regain himself. "We should go," he told Sam.

Sam nodded. He pressed his hand against Dean's back and guided him toward the exit. Dean didn't protest, but there wasn't much he could argue. He just stumbled toward the end of the field, looking like a lost soul.

But he was alive. He was Dean. And hopefully, they'd all managed to pull through in one piece.

He couldn't say the same for the last time.

.....

The victims don't remember a damn thing. That was the way it went. So when Dean stumbled out of the smoke-filled room, blood-shot and exhausted, Bobby didn't expect him to understand, or to know what John had done.

But when Bobby looked into Dean's eyes, he saw something that shook him. Dean might not remember what happened, and that was a blessing for sure, but there was a ghost haunting his eyes, something odd and wrong and broken, and it wasn't ever going away.

Bobby sent a murderous glare to John.

"Go get cleaned up," John told the bewildered boy.

"Dad? Bobby?"

"Go on and clean up," John said again, his voice firm.

Dean nodded. He touched the two-week growth on his face and took a whiff under his arm, but didn't ask any questions. Instead, he shuffled toward the bathroom, favoring his left side and occasionally looking over his shoulder to John or Bobby looking for help, for understanding. When he received none, he staggered into the bathroom and shut the door.

"You owe that boy an explanation," Bobby said.

"I'll tell him he was attacked by a bori. Don't worry about it." John wiped his hands on a rag before he started to pack up his arsenal.

"That ain't what I mean."

"It'll do."

"It won't."

John stopped and glared at Bobby. "You have a problem with me?"

"I sure do. You just put that boy through Hell. You just made him relieve his mother's death. Oh, I know you did," Bobby said, cutting John off before he could lie his way out of it. "And you threw the Sam leaving fiasco into his face too, didn't you?"

John held his hard gaze for a moment longer. "I did what I had to do."

"No, you didn't. You did what was easy. You took out your grief on him, instead of dealing with it yourself."

"Stay out of my business."

"No. It ain't happening, John. You bring your damaged, yellow ass into my home, and you expect me to do nothing when you tear your own kids down to be as screwed up as yourself?"

John slammed the duffle bag onto the table and shoved himself in Bobby's face. "Mary is dead. Do you think I wanted to do this to Dean? Do you think I wanted to raise my boys this way?" He stopped, his heavy hot breath on Bobby's face. "There's something dark hanging over my family and I won't let it take my boys. I won't."

"This ain't the way. It's gonna blow up in your face one day. You already lost one kid. You wanna lose the other?"

With a swift zip, John closed the duffle bag and flung it over his shoulder. He didn't even have the decency to answer. "Hurry up, Dean! We're going!" With that, he marched to the door and headed to his truck.

Bobby wasn't letting him off that easy. He nabbed his shotgun and stormed after John. Rumsfeld started barking at the tension, or at John, but Bobby blocked out the noise to face the stubborn man who still hadn't managed to face his own demons.

"So you're gonna be a coward and just walk?"

John threw the bag into his truck and turned to Bobby, his eyes ablaze. "It'd be best for you to stop. Now."

"My house. My rules."

"Then, I'll be going and you can keep your rules to yourself." He opened the truck door.

Bobby was going to get through to John if it was the last thing he did. He grabbed John by the shoulder and shoved him back. "Maybe Sam had the right idea. Maybe you're poison."

John yanked his sleeve out of Bobby's hand. "Don't you mention Sam."

"Kills ya, don't it? That one of your boys can think for himself. You're scared Dean will do it, too. Leave you all alone with your misery."

"Bobby, I don't wanna do it, but I'll hit you."

"You try," Bobby muttered. He raised his gun.

John grabbed Bobby by the collar and slammed him against the side of the truck. He wound his arm back and readied for the punch, despite Bobby trying to wave him off with threats of his shotgun. He only stopped short when his face fell slack.

Bobby seized the moment. "Call up Sam. Be good to Dean. Don't do this."

He was staring at something just beyond Bobby's shoulder.

"Do what?" Dean asked.

Bobby turned his head, and let out a disappointed sigh. Dean was watching them, scrubbing the scruff behind Rumsfeld's ear with his injured, but working arm. He still looked lost, but that confusion was quickly turning into suspicion and anxiety. Dean couldn't take it when people he cared about argued. He never could.

Bobby had no doubt if he was a hundred percent, he'd have come running to separate them, to shove himself in the middle somehow. This time he didn't. He just watched, watched with that pained, deep-cutting pain that made Bobby feel the guilt smack him like a ton of bricks.

John eased his grip on Bobby, though the anger never left his eyes.

"Dean, let's go."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just pack your stuff and go."

Dean examined his father's face, searching for answers. Bobby knew he wouldn't get them. And Dean wouldn't ask for them. He'd just be the good little soldier, hoping that whatever he did would win his daddy's affection forevermore.

Bobby was plain sick of it.

As expected, Dean reached down to grab his bag and headed toward the Impala. He kept bouncing his attention between John, Bobby, and Bobby's gun. Finally, he let out a sigh and threw his stuff into the trunk.

Bobby didn't want him to go. In truth, he didn't want to end things with John this way either.

He swallowed down the lump growing in his throat and raised his gun at John.

John paused outside the driver's door to his Sierra. "Gonna shoot me, Bobby."

"Bobby!" Dean shouted.

"I don't ever want to see your hide on my property again, here me? I ain't afraid to pump you full of buckshot from here to kingdom come."

John scoffed. "You don't mean that."

Bobby cocked the shotgun.

That was all John needed to know. He climbed into his truck and headed off the property. Dean lingered for a moment longer, looking both hurt and betrayed by Bobby's words, but also a little in awe. Like his father, he left without another word. Bobby watched him climb into the driver's side of the Impala and take off after John.

Once again, Bobby was alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The victims don't remember a damn thing. That didn't change if it happened fifty years ago or if it happened today. Nearly seven years ago, when Bobby had looked into Dean's eyes, he had seen the ghost of a broken man. Now, that man was older and still just as broken, but this time there was a spark of something else, of something light in there.

"A bori, huh?" Dean asked, limping alongside Bobby's wheelchair.

Bobby nodded and let himself relax as Sam pushed his chair. Anyone could tell the feeling hadn't fully come back to Dean's left side yet, leaving him a bit off-balance and lopsided, but at least the scratches on his right arm were hidden under his jacket sleeve. Dean didn't seem to want to dwell on it, and once he figured out where he was and what happened, he'd snapped back into his bravado.

That was a good sign.

Dean stretched his mouth in an exaggerated motion to get the left corner of his mouth working. To Bobby, it was almost comical. Almost.

"I nailed one of those suckers years ago."

No surprise he left out the part where it nailed him back. Bobby could imagine Sam rolling his eyes behind him.

"Bori don't strike twice," Dean added.

"Cas thinks a pagan god was involved somehow," Sam added. "Used your last encounter and ran with it."

Dean shot Bobby a curious look before he glanced back at Sam. If Dean was afraid that Sam had seen a less manly side of himself or had found out what happened back in '03, he didn't voice his fear. He just looked down to Bobby, raised his eyebrows, and grabbed the corn dog. "Where is Cas anyway?" he asked between mouthfuls. "Didn't want to come to the show?"

Bobby or Sam didn't have a chance to answer. As they approached the Impala, the three of them found Castiel among a crowd of people, showcasing the car to eager listeners.

"The hell? He's pimping my car!"

Dean shoved the half-eaten corn dog into Bobby's hand and stumbled after Castiel, still uneven as the poison worked its way out of his system. Sam and Bobby let him go.

"You think he'll be okay?" Sam asked.

Bobby watched Dean block Castiel and start spouting off a dozen specs for the Impala, pointing out to the enthusiasts all the work he'd done in keeping it top notch without sacrificing its integrity. Naturally, given where they were, they all hung on his every word. Dean ate it all up.

"I was wrong," Castiel said, leaving Dean to join them. He turned to Sam. "You have learned good judgment."

"I don't know. I'm not really sure what snapped him out of it. I really wanted to give him a new memory, something to make up for…" Sam sighed. "It could have been anything."

Dean cherished many things, and those little trinkets, whether an amulet or memories or his car or everything in between, switched focus on his priority list on a daily basis. Only God knew what really had dug into his mind this time around. But hey, maybe the old African myth was right. Maybe cars were their own kind of music for Dean.

Maybe it wasn't.

"Doesn't matter," Bobby said. "You got him back."

"We did," Sam corrected.

Sam might want to play the "we" card all he pleased, but Bobby had only been there to watch. He kept wishing maybe he was something more, and even though Sam and Dean told him repeatedly he was like family, he just was feeling less and less like a part of this group. Not without his legs.

He sighed. "Might as well try to drag wonder boy away from his adoring fans."

They gave Dean a few more minutes to shine in the spotlight before they encouraged him to pack it in. He did, rather reluctantly, and once the crowd dispersed, he helped Sam assist getting Bobby into his van. He didn't need the help, of course, but it was hard to argue when the Winchesters insisted.

"All set," Sam said, giving the side of the van a pat.

Castiel held out his hand to Dean.

"What?"

"I need it back."

Dean made a disgusted face at Castiel before slipping off the amulet and handing it back. "Same rules apply," he grumbled.

"Of course." The amulet disappeared from sight. Castiel then placed his hand on Dean's shoulder and gave him a significant look. "It's good to see you're not acting like a dog now."

Dean stared at him. "All right," he finally said, waving Castiel's hand off his shoulder. "That's enough weird for one day." Dean headed for the driver's side.

Sam stopped him short. "You probably should let me drive."

Dean groaned and threw the keys at Sam as they switched sides. "I'm not a freakin' invalid."

Not that it was funny, but Sam and Bobby laughed anyway. Just wait until he found out an angel had given him a sponge bath. He hoped Sam took pictures of his reactions when Dean heard that one.

"Oh, hey. Scorpions," Dean said, flipping through the cassette box Sam had left out for him. "I haven't listened to that album in awhile."

As Dean prepared to turn on the cassette, Sam leaned over and peered out the window. "We'll be in touch," he told Bobby.

Bobby was sure they would be. It didn't make the pain ease any.

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said, waving as Sam started to pull out of the parking spot.

"Thank your brother," he called back.

But Dean was already lost in the music. As the two of them headed out of the lot, Bobby could see Dean mock drumming, while the faint sound of his off-key voice filled the air as he sang, "Here I am! Rock you like a hurricane!"

His voice faded, leaving Bobby with boisterous sounds of people entering and exiting the sports grounds, and an awkward looking angel standing outside his van.

"I would heal you if I could," Castiel told him.

"I know."

"But maybe you need to find a way to heal yourself."

"So helpful," he muttered. When he went to face Castiel, the angel had already vanished.

Once again, Bobby was alone.

With a sigh, Bobby started the engine and headed home. He decided he would check the fridge for any leftover pizza, if Dean hadn't eaten it all, and settle in with some whiskey and a late-night western on one of those pay channels. Same old thing he did every night now when he wasn't helping the Winchesters.

Maybe some day it would be different. Maybe not. He didn't know.

Part of him just didn't care anymore.

As his old junkyard came into view, he thought about John, Dean, and Sam and everything they'd been through both together and apart. Bori were demented suckers. They preyed on people's insecurities and chose their victims wisely. But Bobby was starting to think the victims weren't just those that were stung. Bori infected everyone in that circle, bringing all the good and bad to the surface. They tore apart both victim and those who cared for them. The strength of a person was weighed in what choices they made. What memories they could bring out of the dark into the light.

Maybe they'd never know exactly what saved Dean that day, though Bobby was positive it wasn't about a "what" but about a "who." Maybe it all depended on the person having the ability to make any memory bright, to make new memories in times of despair. Maybe it had nothing to do with memories at all.

Bobby didn't think he'd ever know.

Little did Bobby know that one day he would find out. For what it was worth, in the years to come, Dean would constantly talk about that one special time his little brother cared enough to take him to a car show.

And the grumpy wheelchair-bound man who had stood by them to make it happen.

* * *

End Note: I want to thank everyone who took the time to read the story and for those who left feedback. It's always nice to know whether you enjoyed it. Also, like I said before, I am aware that this site has changed a lot of its scene-break functions so most of my older fic is probably in formatting hell. I'll have to go back and fix those. If for any reason you are interested in anything I've written before, you can always visit my Livejournal for those stories until I fix the ones listed here. My penname is the same there.


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